


Coffee Stains

by Cocohorse



Series: Heavenscoin One-Shots [3]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heavenscoin, Pining, Post-Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5496494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cocohorse/pseuds/Cocohorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Daughter, wife, mother, rebel, leader, president. Madame President. Alma. Alma. Alma."</p><p>After she is shot, Plutarch visits Coin. Twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee Stains

He had seen the arrow strike her. It happened too fast and too suddenly for him to react, so he simply didn’t. He stayed where he was and hung back at the edge of the stage, watching the crowd of rebels swallow up Katniss and Snow. Afterwards, Plutarch quickly and successfully hid and avoided the resulting waves of chaos. He patiently watched and waited, studying each fluctuation and reverberation. Even though he feared for his own life, he no longer feared for the livelihood of the country. The path towards a working democracy had been cleared.

Admittedly, Katniss had not surprised him and the rebels had not surprised him. But what surprised him was Coin. She had been killed instantaneously, he reasoned. Katniss had aimed to kill. She had aimed to tear down a rising dictatorship.

A few days had passed until he received a call that told him that he had thirty minutes to prepare him for a trip to the Capitol’s hospital. Coin had survived. The arrow had missed her vital organs and major arteries, and she had been cleared out of the area before she could lose too much blood. So while the shattered country was still scrambling to pick up its pieces, she had been recovering very slowly under watch and care in the hospital. That same day that he received the call, news rapidly sprung out that she was alive and was already recovering. A return to power was expected, and the dark implications of punishment for her enemies loomed. It would be retribution.

Plutarch was escorted through the hospital by armed, dark-clothed guards, and they left him standing in the doorway of her room. When he walked inside, he immediately noticed her lying in a bed, connected by tubes to a machine. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow. A blanket was drawn over her so that her bandaged body could not be seen. She looked almost normal sleeping, Plutarch silently noted. Old memories that he thought he had drowned gently pushed at the surface of his mind.

He padded quietly over to the chair next to her bed and slowly sat down in it without a word. Inspecting her face closer, he saw, to his surprise, how sickly pale she was. Dark shadows pulled around the edges of her sunken eyes. If he was correct, even her breathing rose and fell weakly and painfully. Something sharp, though, struck him in his chest when she suddenly opened her eyes. Her gaze met him instantly, and it burned with a cold blue fire. It held no softness, no weakness, no color. Fire still stirred in her even as she looked like she was dying.

Plutarch felt a small smile appear on his face. “I’m glad to see you alive.” He spoke respectfully and invitingly. He didn’t know if he spoke truthfully, however.

“Not everyone is,” she said matter-of-factly.

A shudder almost ran across his skin at the sound of her voice. He had never thought he would hear it again. He paused himself and then evenly asked, “How are you fairing?”

“I have felt better. And looked better.” Then she laughed out loud. It must have been the morphine.

“You look fine, Madame President,” he reassured calmly. It was not true. Restricted in her bed, she seemed so small and delicate that a breeze could have tipped her over. He gave her another smile and added, “I would’ve brought you something. Flowers, maybe. Coffee.” He shot a look down at her for a reaction, but nothing on her face changed. The fire did not soften.

“Have you brought any news instead?” she questioned. Her voice was still strong, but it was also hoarse after laughing.

Pleasantries were over. He started in his seat, feeling unease set in. “The country is still deciding what to do with Katniss. She’s been taken in and is awaiting for further instruction.” He drew in a heavy breath. “Everything’s going crazy right now. Everyone thought you died. You’re lucky.”

Coin didn’t respond right away, and she studied him through narrowed eyes. “Did you think that I was dead?” she asked.

“Yes, for the most part.” He spoke low in admittance. “Katniss is a good shot.”

“I _know_ that,” she pointedly said. Then she paused to wheeze. Her frail frame shook until she finished. She continued on in a rasp. “But she’s not good enough. Treat her like the rest of the Capitol loyalists. She isn’t above any of them. Give her a trial and see how she does, but make sure you take care of her properly.”

“Madame President,” he tried carefully, “are you asking me to have her executed?”

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you to do your job,” she warned. “Your job is still also to plan out the 76th Hunger Games for the remaining Capitol children.”

He tensed up and froze as if he had been bitten by a snake. “What?” he quavered.

Coin blinked and narrowed her eyes. “You’re against this,” she slowly pointed out, danger creeping into her tone. “You don’t agree with me.”

“No, no, no,” he stressed, quickly backing down. “I just didn’t _know_ we were still continuing it.”

“We are. It was a group vote.”

“I never voted.”

“It was a decision for the victors.” She stared at him, suspicion pooling in her eyes. “You better understand what you’re saying. Are you having any doubts, Mr. Heavensbee? I don't allow any room for uncertainty.”

“No, I understand,” he assured directly, swiftly nodding in agreement. “I’ll do it. I’ll deal with Katniss and prep for the games right away.”

Coin sighed and leaned back, closing her eyes for a moment. Her exhaustion seemed to allow her to readily accept his words. “Do it now, then. I’ll send people and supplies so you can start. I'll see you later, then, for updates.” She ended abruptly as a fit of coughing overcame her, and she layed there convulsing for a few moments.

As each cough racked her weak body, Plutarch watched helplessly. Once the fit ended and her body eased, he got up and stepped backwards, swallowing hesitantly. “Do you want me to bring anything when I come back? Now that we're in the Capitol, you can get whatever you want."

"I don't want anything but rest," Coin croaked gruffly, and there was a hint of the sarcastic, old Coin underneath the blanket and the tubes.

Plutarch wavered above her and searched for more words, but he opened his mouth and found none. For a while, the room was silent except for Coin’s labored breathing and the machine’s quiet whirring and beeping.

“We should have rescued the boy,” she whispered, staring at the wall in front of her.

Plutarch’s heart thudded in his chest as he staggered out of the room, pretending that he didn't hear.

 

* * *

 

Shortly after his visit, Coin started to bleed internally. It took one long week until she died. Plutarch was not asked to stay with her during then, so he simply didn't and never visited the hospital. But the day he learned of her death, he stopped working and stayed indoors all day. He didn't understand why he was acting so, and his confusion only kept him in longer. He had been genuinely relieved and happy when he first thought she had died. Perhaps the first time, there was a sense of necessity for her death. It was a rightful act committed in the name of democracy and the revolution. This time, though, her death was slow and painful, and she had little chance of regaining power in the face of other fast-acting leaders like Paylor. It was the unspoken truth that she had already lost when she was shot. He personally wouldn't have let her kill Katniss or the Capitol children, anyways.

It was exactly a year later that he finally made the trip to visit her grave. She had been buried next to her husband and her daughter in a forgotten field back in Thirteen. There had been no funeral service for her. She didn't have any family or friends left, and besides, there was no time for one these days.

Plutarch was dropped off in the middle of the field by a private hovercraft, and he picked the rest of his way alone through the high golden-brown grass. It was wintertime, and a cold wind flowed from down the surrounding hills, forcing him to shuffle and stagger slowly through the grass in bundles of thick, dark clothing. He was careful to keep the cup of coffee in his hands high above the grass. After five minutes, the three headstones came into view. Gray and unremarkable, they had only the person’s name and dates inscribed. He came to a standing stop in front of them, and he silently read them until he reached the third headstone.

 _Alma Coin  
_ _26 — 76 ADD_

He flashed a brief smile of amusement, noting the lack of a title. Daughter, wife, mother, rebel, leader, president. Madame President. Alma. Alma. Alma.

“We could have done something together, Alma,” he told her. Her first name tasted foreign on his tongue. He hadn’t used it in such a long time and only for a few specific moments.

“Imagine us running this country together, hm? Our combined knowledge and skills together would have been something great. Something that Panem had never seen before.”

His rumble of a voice climbed into a breathy sigh. “I remember how eager you were when we first came in contact. I was, too. I was just another part of the machine then. My small Communications job was to check on District 13. It was nice sending messages back and forth for a bit, I guess, as you started rising ranks and I started training to be a Gamemaker. But I think your family died shortly later. I became a Gamemaker around the same time, too. Well, it didn’t take long for us to figure out our similar goals.” He paused to stare harder at the unresponsive headstone. “But we both silently acknowledged that we didn’t trust each other. We couldn’t. We wouldn’t have been successful. And you’ve proved that fact yourself.”

“I have a pretty good life now at least, I think,” he mused. “I’m Secretary of Communications. It’s not bad, really. I think it’s what I’ve wanted. Next month, I’m starting a music competition. You wouldn’t like it, I’d imagine. I know you, Alma.” He shook his head dejectedly and laughed quietly, bitterly. “You were arrogant. Narcissistic. Overconfident. Callous. I know all of this personally. Did you ever stop to feel anything when you killed all those children back in the Capitol? No? Did you feel anything when your husband and your daughter died? Maybe. I don’t know, honestly. Maybe I don’t and never did personally know you. I don’t know what things you’ve done or why you’ve done them. But I think I understand the sources of your actions. God’s sakes, I was Head Gamemaker, and before then, I was a Gamemaker for years. I’ve killed more children than I care to count. We’re not too different besides our own visions of a government, I admit. We were both too ambitious for each other. No, we wouldn't have been able to work out.”

 _We’re stupid, fickle beings with a gift for self-destruction_.

He didn’t realize how tightly he was clenching the coffee cup until he nearly scorched his fingertips. He loosened his grip, shakily cursing himself under his breath. “See what you’ve done?” he hissed through his teeth. “No, of course you can’t. You’re dead. You’re dead, and I’m going crazy.” He turned his head away and stared out at the rolling fields around him. There was nothing but dying grass sweeping into the distance and gray clouds stretching across the sky. He stood trembling there in the grass and the wind, lost in thought and faded memories.

At last, Plutarch exhaled, and he looked at the cup in his hand. His throat tightened and coiled until he felt he couldn’t breathe. “I had thought it would be funny if I brought coffee today. I've always promised you I'd make you some when everything's over. It is. You never had any, did you?" He smiled, the words dry and tasteless as sand in his mouth. "But we don't always get what we want."

Plutarch’s back straightened. “Maybe I’ll visit and see you again,” he eventually said. “I don’t know. Well, Alma, goodbye for now.” As he turned around and walked back, he tried the coffee. It had already gone cold, he realized.


End file.
